


where the good and righteous walk

by staymonkey



Series: Krewe des Souris Chaudes [1]
Category: DCU (Comics), Deathstroke the Terminator (Comics), New Teen Titans, Nightwing (Comics)
Genre: Alcohol, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Domestic, Father-Daughter Relationship, Healthy Relationships, M/M, Setting - New Orleans
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-07-05
Updated: 2020-07-13
Packaged: 2021-03-05 02:00:24
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 7,024
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25086544
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/staymonkey/pseuds/staymonkey
Summary: Rose Wilson returns to her father after an incident shakes her confidence, and she brings Dick Grayson along with her.an au set in New Orleans.
Relationships: Dick Grayson & Jason Todd, Dick Grayson & Rose Wilson, Dick Grayson & Wintergreen, Dick Grayson/Slade Wilson
Series: Krewe des Souris Chaudes [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1816873
Comments: 54
Kudos: 156





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This is part of a larger series. Tags will be updated as the works are updated.

Slade Wilson was working when he received the phone call. He spared a glance at the caller ID, and then he huffed ruefully at the man across from him.

“This is unprofessional,” he said, “but I have to take this.” He didn’t wait for a reply. He took off his glove with his teeth and tapped his phone screen to accept the call, bringing it to his ear and returning his watchful eye to the other man. He mouthed, ‘ _It will only be a minute_.’

“Daddy!” Rose chirped from the other line. Slade frowned. Rose didn’t call him Daddy anymore, not since she’d turned thirteen and not since she’d returned from the Titans. A part of him mourned that nickname, another, wiser part felt quietly relieved when she began referring to him as the more dispassionate ‘Slade.’

“Yes,” Slade said, warily. “What do you need?”

Rose huffed. The man across from Slade turned purple. Slade offered an apologetic downturn of his mouth.

“Can’t I just call you because I want to?” Rose muttered. Slade shifted his weight.

“It’s unlikely,” he said. “If you need money, I can have it transferred to your account later this afternoon. If you need Billy, he’s busy.”

“Uh, no, I wasn’t calling for Wintergreen. I have his number too, you know. I was actually calling to ask… if I could, you know. Stay with you for a little while,” Rose began, haltingly. Slade raised his eyebrows. 

“I have a house in Houma,” Slade began, but Rose cut him off.

“No. Not Houma, I’m not living in rural Louisiana again. Don’t you have an apartment in the city?”

Slade grimaced. “I do.”

“Then, let’s stay there. Together, I mean. Just for a little while, you don’t even have to stop working.”

“What happened? You don’t need me to access New Orleans. Besides, you usually prefer to stay in my safehouses when you think I’m not home,” Slade said. Rose made an indignant noise, and so did the man, and so Slade mouthed, ‘ _Patience._ ’

“Maybe I just miss my dad, you irreverent psychopath,” Rose hissed.

“And?” Slade prodded, tightening his grip on his phone.

“And… maybe I had an accident and got a little freaked out. And maybe my big brother is unavailable, so I went with the next best thing.”

There it is. “Are you injured?” Slade asked. It was a potentially silly question, she’d taken the serum same as him, but they’d had different reactions to it before. And “accident” could mean so many things; Slade knew it was possible to overwhelm their healing factors.

“No, I’m fine. Physically, I mean. I just don’t feel comfortable out in the field right now. I know it’s just in my head, but knowing that hasn’t made it any easier.”

“You can stay with me,” Slade said. “In the house on St. Charles and Delachaise. I’ll be home,” Slade glanced at a calendar on the wall, “in two days. I’ll have Billy stock the pantry before I arrive.”

“I can handle groceries, assuming you still keep a credit card taped under every sink?”

“I do.”

“Great,” Rose said. “I’ll take care of it before you arrive. I thought you said Billy was busy anyway?”

“He’s not too busy for you. Never for you,” Slade confessed. “He misses you.”

Rose paused. “Yeah, I’ve missed him too,” she said finally. “I’ll see you in a couple of days, Dad.”

She ended the call, and Slade found himself feeling especially warm when he turned his attention back to the man across from him. The man’s fat, pink tongue protruded from his mouth, and he’d ceased scratching at Slade’s forearm, but his eyes were still alert and wild. Slade tightened his fist around the man’s throat and pushed him even higher up on the wall where he’d held him throughout the duration of the phone call.

“That was my daughter,” Slade said sweetly. “She’s going to stay with me.”

The man gurgled. Slade tightened his grip once more, until the man spasmed, rolled his bulging eyes back, and stilled. Slade dropped the body to the ground and texted Wintergreen.

* * *

“God, it’s humid,” Rose muttered as she stood on a chair to turn on an ancient AC unit, which rumbled and spat dust at her for her efforts. Still, after a few more minutes, cool air blurted from its slats and she sighed in pleasure. “Jesus Christ, I’d wish he’d come around and do a little maintenance every so often.”

She’d only just arrived in New Orleans, and it’d become apparent she’d beaten Slade’s arrival as soon as the rideshare dropped her off in front of his safe house’s ostentatious wrought iron gate. The house itself was an ugly Victorian mansion with a woefully underutilized lawn that stood out in a city bursting with unfettered greenery, Creole townhouses, shotguns, and double galleries. It was unlike Slade, but he’d presumably bought it for the added privacy and because it was cheaper that it should have been, having been stranded on the market for years prior to his discrete purchase.

“He doesn’t like the city,” Dick said from across the sitting room, where he’d been investigating the gilded, elaborate crown molding. “He wouldn’t have bought this place if he didn’t get so much work here.” Dick frowned at patterned wallpaper. “I need to weed out some of his contacts, clear up the city so he’ll behave while he’s here.” 

“A waste of time,” Rose snorted, climbing down from the chair and returning it to the dining room, which housed no fewer than three candle chandeliers. “He won’t sit still and play house, if that’s what you want.”

Dick shrugged and collapsed onto the room’s ornate, Victorian sofa. “Kinda,” he said. “At least, if he’s planning to stay longer than a weekend. Slade knows better than to shit where he sleeps,” He propped his ankles up one sofa arm, and his head on the other. The room was sparsely decorated for its size, but it nevertheless featured a tiered chandelier, mounted flatscreen television, and Persian rug that Dick couldn’t imagine Slade choosing for himself.

“He really doesn’t,” Rose muttered. “He really, really doesn’t.”

She flitted about the ground floor, drawing the drapes, claiming one of the seven available bedrooms, and dusting here and there. Dick watched her carefully, recognizing the nervousness in her step with a pang of sympathy.

“He’s going to be excited to see you,” he promised, unlocking his phone to shoot a text. “He’ll probably even behave himself, at least for the first couple of hours. If he’s anything like Bruce, which he very much is.”

“And what does that say about you?” Rose asked wryly.

“Nothing good,” Dick said.

They fell into a companionable silence as Rose finished freshening up the house, her chores ending with a friendlier, warmer space. She’d also found and documented most of that floor’s surveillance cameras, transmitters, and tripwires.

“Come grocery shopping with me,” Rose said, wiping her hands on her pants and draping herself over the back of the couch to tug at Dick’s hair. Dick looked up at her from his phone.

“No,” Dick said. “Your dad’s going to be home any minute, I’d rather tell him sooner rather than later that I’ll be a fixture in his house.”

“Lame,” Rose said, straightening her back and stretching. “But fine. Text me if you have any particular requests.”

“Will do,” Dick grunted, checking his messages for the nth time. “If your dad’s late or I get bored, I might take the streetcar and meet you at the store.”

“Okay,” Rose said, grabbing her purse from where she’d tossed it in a corner. She paused at the threshold to the grand hall, eyeing the stained-glass window. “This was stupid, wasn’t it? I have you, we could have just stayed in San Francisco. We don’t have to be down here, with him. Joey will turn up eventually, and by the time he does, I’ll be over whatever this is anyway.”

Dick sat up and put aside his phone for the first time since he’d settled into the sofa. “You’re okay, Rose. You had a scare, and you sought the comfort of your family. That’s a normal urge, and you shouldn’t be angry with yourself for wanting your father.” 

She chewed her lip. “He won’t stay.”

“He’ll stay for a little while,” Dick said. “And I’m here for a long while. You’ll feel better, once he actually gets here and you get to see him.”

Rose unclenched her jaw. “Fine, whatever. Don’t do anything weird with him if I’m still out when he arrives. I know you haven’t seen each other in a while, but I want to at least say hello to him before you degenerates act out.”

“Me? I’d never,” Dick said. “I’m a well-respected hero, remember? He’s a no-good mercenary. I’d have to be morally bankrupt to become involved with him.”

“Again,” she reminded him. Dick winked at her.

“Again,” he amended.

She rolled her eye, muttered something about his impulse control, and left.

Approximately seventeen minutes later, Dick heard footsteps just outside, followed by several clicks of the door’s locks. A thrill of unexpected excitement raced up Dick’s spine. He quickly stretched out on the sofa, wiggling so that his shirt rode up just enough to flash his Adonis’s belt. He tilted his hips towards the door in polite suggestion and cocked his chin to show off his long neck and sharp jaw. And then, unsure where to place his hands, he tossed them behind his head and hoped he looked candid.

The footsteps grew louder, and then, through the entryway, Dick caught a shock of white hair, an esteemed face, sharp blue eyes—

Wintergreen stepped into the sitting room, looked Dick up and down, and then said, “At ease, Mr. Grayson.”

Dick flushed and sunk into the upholstery. “Uh,” he said. “Sorry, I thought you were Slade.” Still unsure of where to place his hands, he cupped his own reddened face.

“I guessed as much,” Wintergreen said, although he glanced appreciatively at Dick’s exposed midriff. Dick, not one to reject positive attention, undulated his stomach just to watch Wintergreen’s eyebrows climb. “Talented boy,” Wintergreen muttered, striding past Dick to go to the kitchen. “Do make yourself useful; there are groceries in my car.”

Dick mournfully glanced at his phone again, where he’d texted Slade a tongue emoji well over an hour prior. There still wasn’t any response. Wintergreen poked his head back into the room, noted Dick’s pouting, and added, “It’s terribly hot outside. It would hardly look unusual for you to remove your shirt. If Slade happens to catch you on your way back inside, then so be it.”

“I don’t know,” Dick bemoaned. He reluctantly rolled off the sofa and stretched. “It won’t look… trashy? Excessive? Desperate?”

“No more desperate than presenting yourself for him like a cat in heat,” Wintergreen said, popping back in the kitchen to avoid the hurt look Dick shot him.

“Rose just went to the store, you know,” Dick warned. “She’s going to be annoyed when she comes back to see you’ve taken up all of the space.”

“Rose will return with microwave dinners and wine,” Wintergreen snipped back. “If I don’t supplement her efforts, the lot of you risk malnourishment.” 

Dick frowned and then texted Rose to pick up Sauvignon Blanc. She sent back a gif of a woman drinking from an absurdly large glass by way of confirmation.

“When I spoke to Slade the other day,” Wintergreen called, “he didn’t mention an additional guest.”

“Not a guest,” Dick said, poking his head into the kitchen. It was just as ornate and obnoxious as the rest of the house, although the appliances were more modern than he’d expected. “And he doesn’t know I’m here. Rose wanted a buffer. She’s unsettled, she’ll relax once she’s had some time; it’s impossible not to take it easy in this town.” Dick leaned against the doorframe and shoved his hands in his pockets.

“I politely disagree,” Wintergreen said. “It’s boiling. It’s enough to drive a man mad.”

“Some people like the heat, Wintergreen,” Dick mused. “It has me feeling pretty tired myself.”

“Groceries,” Wintergreen reminded him. “Go.”

Dick turned to go but then paused. “Where did we land on the shirt again?”

“Take it off,” Wintergreen said as he tucked produce into the refrigerator’s crisper. “It won’t look tasteless, not in this heat. But unless you want to irritate Slade, I’d suggest you fold it and leave it in a bedroom.

Dick pulled off his shirt and folded it into a messy approximation of a square. He glanced over his shoulder and caught Wintergreen’s eyes on him and so, naturally, he turned around to flex but froze at Wintergreen’s pinched expression.

“What?” Dick asked.

“What have you done to yourself?” Wintergreen asked, abandoning his task to investigate further. He gestured to Dick, and Dick turned around obligingly so that Wintergreen could take a closer look. “It looks like you were sliced to pieces by a surgeon and then shoddily stitched together by a drunkard.”

“Oh,” Dick said, twisting his torso to glance at the referenced scars on his lower back. “It’s nothing. Jason and I were fucking around on our lines a few weeks ago and I miscalculated.”

A few weeks ago, he and Jason decided to compare acrobatics during a slow night and Dick had gotten tangled in his grappling line. The thin wire had wound around his abdomen a few times over before going taught. The weight of his body had then forced the line into Dick’s flesh where his shirt and leggings separated. Neither Jason nor Dick had wanted to admit to Alfred what they’d done, and so Jason had patched him up, albeit while shaking from the shock of the incident.

The wounds had since healed, leaving shiny, pink scars in their wake.

“I have a collagen balm that I keep for Slade’s more overwhelming injuries, from which you may also benefit. His skin takes to it within hours, yours may need longer application. I can apply some now and then give you enough to tide you over until you’re able to purchase your own.”

“Oh, okay,” Dick said with a shrug. “If you think it would help.”

Wintergreen left to fetch the balm from his vehicle, and Dick migrated to the sitting room, where he tossed his poorly folded shirt onto a mahogany and cypress side table. When Wintergreen returned, he insisted that Dick lean over, and so Dick braced his hands on the back of the sofa. Wintergreen fetched a pillow from the master bedroom for his knees and lowered himself behind Dick.

“May I?” Wintergreen asked. Dick gave his consent and undid his jeans so that Wintergreen could sidle them lower on Dick’s hips, for easier access to the marred skin. Then, he massaged a greasily textured balm into Dick’s raised flesh, and Dick tried his best to relax. It was difficult for Dick, at times, to not conflate Wintergreen with Alfred, especially when Wintergreen fretted.

“It’s heartening to hear that you and your brother are getting along. He’s how old now, 25?” Wintergreen said casually. 

“23, actually,” Dick chirped. “He’s younger than he looks. People have started to think he’s older than me, I can’t tell how I feel about it.” 

“I’m unsurprised that he’s assumed to be older,” Wintergreen said. “I wouldn’t worry. Slade has always appeared more youthful than his age, and it’s yet to disadvantage him.”

Dick shifted. “I’m not worried about my own appearance, so much. Sometimes it feels like the boys are outgrowing me, I guess. And the girls belong to Kate and Helena, or they did, before Kate and Helena relocated. I’m still on the Titans’ board of founders, but it’s not the same advisory position as when the kids were first on their own. It’s nice that Rose still thinks to call me.”

Wintergreen leaned close enough that Dick could feel Wintergreen huff against his bare skin. “Watch that inkling of yours, lest you find yourself coddling grown adults well into your 60s.” 

Dick snorted. “And do you regret it?” he asked. “Would you have done anything differently if you’d known what to expect?”

“Not at all,” Wintergreen said. He paused his ministrations. “Perhaps I would have reached out to Grant more frequently.”

Dick quieted and Wintergreen resumed the scar massage. Just as Dick felt soothed into dozing between the heat and Wintergreen’s fingers, a _thump_ sounded from the room’s entrance and Dick started.

There, framed by the ivory-painted threshold, Slade stood, just as devastatingly handsome as Dick remembered. His hair was long again and fell about his face in elegant waves. His beard was neatly trimmed, and he wore a casual blazer with ¾ quarter sleeves over a tight white shirt, showcasing his thick forearms. His expression was an odd mix of surprise, irritation, and faint interest.

“Hey, you,” Dick grinned lazily. “You look good.”

Slade’s keen eye slid from Dick to Wintergreen. Or, Dick realized slowly, the top of Wintergreen’s head. From where Slade was standing, the couch shielded the rest of Wintergreen and made it clear that the older gentleman was kneeling on hardwood. 

“He insisted,” Dick clarified. “There’s a pillow under his knees if you’re worried.”

Slade shot Dick a look like he’d bit into a lemon. Understanding hit Dick like a gut punch from Bane. 

“Oh! Uh, no, wait, this isn’t what it looks like—uh, it’s—” Dick straightened sharply, and Wintergreen swatted his thigh.

“Don’t mind him,” Wintergreen chided, poking his head from around Dick. “Welcome back, Slade. Mr. Grayson has an unsightly scar on his lower back, I offered to help. I also have groceries in the car, if you would like to take over here so that I may finish stocking the kitchen.”

Dick flushed. Slade picked up the duffel bag he’d dropped upon arrival and meandered over, watching Dick with a glint to his eye that Dick hoped was bemusement.

“I’ll take over,” Slade said, and Dick nearly melted at his rich, gravelly voice. Dick _missed_ that voice.

Slade helped Wintergreen stand and Wintergreen squeezed his shoulder before excusing himself to the garage. Dick turned around before Slade could touch him.

“Hi,” Dick said. “Your house is very ugly.”

Slade crossed his arms and raised his eyebrows. “You’re here with Rose?” he asked.

“Yeah,” Dick said. “She wanted to take some time from the field and asked that I come along and resume training her.”

“She called me,” Slade said.

“I know,” Dick murmured. “She misses you. She loves you.”

“She didn’t tell me you were coming,” Slade added. Dick tilted his head with a grin.

“She didn’t want you to say no,” Dick said gently. “I told her she should talk to you about it, but your family doesn’t communicate any better than mine, and I wasn’t about to demand it of her.”

“You plan on staying here?” Slade uncrossed his arms.

“I don’t have to stay here. I have alternative arrangements if you don’t want me around,” Dick offered. “It’s important to me that you have time with Rose, and that I don’t encroach on your relationship with her.”

“But you’d prefer to stay here?” Slade asked. “You’ve spoken to her, and she wants you here?” He smelled nice, and Dick wanted to touch his hair.

“We talked about it, and yeah, she wants me around the house,” Dick said. “Your boundaries matter, too, though. It’s up to you whether or not I stay.”

Slade blinked. “Then stay. Put your fucking clothes away," he said, gesturing to Dick's shirt on the side table, "but stay. And turn around, I told Wintergreen I’d finish you up.”

Dick faced the sofa again, but not before flashing Slade a pleased, heat-drunk grin, coaxing a smirk from Slade. Slade lowered himself to his knees, like Wintergreen before him, but unlike Wintergreen, he was generous with the balm. When satisfied with the grappling line scars, he moved on to the other, older scars littering Dick’s back. And then, Dick turned around so that Slade could dab on the scars across his chest and abdomen, while Dick stroked his fingers through Slade’s hair. 

So enthralled was he with Slade’s attention, that he didn’t think to suggest they move from behind that horrid sofa. Slade was massaging a chemical burn just to the right of Dick’s navel when there was another _thump_ from the entryway.

“For _fuck’s_ sake,” Rose shouted.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> next chapter: dick & rose explore the city


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> it's an hour past sunday, whoops

The first night was odd. Dick knew it would be, and he’d never had trouble settling in with odd before. But, from where he nestled in a king-sized bed under pale, foreign sheets, he felt unbelievably restless. It wasn’t long before he tossed his long legs over the side and rolled to his feet.

He liked to think he meant only to check on Rose and familiarize himself with the house. That he was just exploring the oversized mansion, which he hadn’t done earlier in the evening.

(He'd stuck by Rose's side like a chagrined dog after the scene she'd walked into.)

Dick liked to think he meant only to check on Rose and familiarize himself with the house, but after he did both, he found himself thinking about Slade's expression when Slade had first seen Rose. Slade’s eyebrows had been furrowed and his jaw had been set, but then he’d pulled her into a tight hug. Dick had watched the tension drain from her body with a profound sense of relief. Slade was what she'd needed and Slade seemed to have needed her too, and maybe Dick had gotten this right. 

Dick blinked, having found himself at the master bedroom.

Yearning curled deep in Dick's gut, but so did guilt. It wouldn't be fair to Rose to involve himself too closely with Slade when he was here to shelter her from him. 

But Rose was asleep. 

Dick knocked on the door. 

The sound echoed in the still house. Dick glanced around as if Rose or Wintergreen would appear to shame him, even though he knew they were asleep in their beds down the hall. Nothing stirred, and there wasn't an answer. Dick considered returning to bed or going for a run. Briefly, he worried that maybe Slade hadn't stayed even for just the night. Rose would be heartbroken if he hadn't. Dick would only be marginally better. 

But then the door swung open and Slade leaned against the frame, a hand in his pocket. Despite the late hour, he'd changed since dinner, into a button-up, a cashmere sweater vest, and slacks. He looked more wary than curious over Dick's appearance.

Dick breathed, and then he adopted a sloppy grin. "Hey, Slade."

Slade's mouth twitched. "Hey, kid." 

Dick licked his lips. “Are you… headed out? It’s hot outside for cashmere.”

Slade tilted his head and crossed his arms. “Are you checking up on me?”

“I’m checking up on everyone,” Dick lied, rocking on the balls of his bare feet. With Slade dressed so smartly, Dick suddenly felt self-conscious about his Green Lantern-patterned boxers and plain, black t-shirt. “You look like a dad in that. It’s a good look for you.”

Slade dropped his arms and ran a hand through his hair. He looked down at himself. “I had some clothes stored here, but it’s been long enough I wasn’t sure if they’d still fit.” Slade paused, his face pinched, and then he said, “You should really be asleep, kid. Why aren't you in bed?”

Dick had an entire slew of defensive quips prepared for that question, but his voice caught in his throat. “I couldn't fall asleep," he said instead. "And you? Why are you awake?”

“I couldn't fall asleep,” Slade mused. "Come inside, if we wake Billy, there'll be hell to pay." He stepped back into the room, and Dick followed, shutting the door behind himself. 

Slade's bedroom was… clinical. The carpet was light gray, the two fireplaces were empty and framed with white mantelpieces, and the walls were plastered with pewter-and-white patterned wallpaper. The room was bare, but for an armoire and a king-sized, leather upholstered platform bed. Even the gold drapes on the far window and a gold chandelier in the center of the ceiling lacked any warmth, however starkly they shined against the room's pale neutrality. 

“Jesus Christ, Slade,” Dick muttered. “This isn’t a house, it’s purgatory. What possessed you to buy _this_ , of all places?” 

“There are cats,” Slade admitted. Dick glanced at him sharply.

“What?” Dick said incredulously.

“Cats,” Slade said, crossing his arms and looking away. “There are several stray black cats that gravitate here because the real estate agent fed them as a marketing ploy.” Slade trained his gaze on Dick again, “Omens increase property value in this town.”

“You bought the ugliest, most expensive home in New Orleans because there were feral cats,” Dick blinked. Slade huffed.

“They’re very sociable, for being feral,” Slade said defensively. "They'll approach you." Dick’s chest swelled.

“You should invite them in, then,” Dick said. “If you’re planning to stay.”

Slade shook his head and waved his hand flippantly. “They’d need litter boxes. Vet appointments. Attention. I won’t be responsible for them.”

“But you like them,” Dick said. “You enjoy having them around.”

Slade narrowed his eye at Dick. Dick’s grin widened.

"I do," Slade said. 

Dick lifted his chin triumphantly. “Then don't deny yourself. I’ll be responsible for them. You like them, the house could use the warmth, and I think we’d all benefit from a thin layer of cat hair on our clothes.”

Slade furrowed his brows and frowned at Dick. He stood, frozen in place for several seconds. Dick melted.

As clever, arrogant, and augmented as he was, Slade could still be stunned by small, silly gestures. It was _cute_. 

“Do what you want,” Slade finally said. His expression softened. “But, you haven't seen the entire house. It's not entirely awful.”

“No?” Dick smirked. "Are you willing to bet on it?" 

Slade snorted. “No. But, it's got good water pressure.” Slade reached out and smoothed a thumb over Dick's cheek. "And we can always redecorate. I don't know what to do with the space, you and Rose might." 

Want threatened to swallow Dick whole, but it wouldn't be fair to Rose for Dick to involve himself too closely with Slade. 

It wouldn't. 

It really, really wouldn't. 

Dick threaded his arms around Slade’s neck and hopped up to wrap his legs around Slade’s waist. Slade darted forward, pressing his lips against Dick’s with such force that Dick’s head fell back and lightly bumped against the door.

“ _Gentle_ ,” Dick hissed, even though a smile tugged at his lips. Slade didn’t reply, but he slid a hand between Dick and the door, weaving his fingers into Dick’s hair and cradling his head to deepen the kiss. His other hand slid under Dick’s shirt to pressed against the base of Dick’s spine, and Dick felt so _held_ that he nearly disassociated.

Slade stepped back to carry Dick to the bed, but Dick tugged at Slade’s hair.

“What?” Slade grunted, nipping Dick’s ear punitively. It only served to make Dick dizzy, and Slade had to pull away again before Dick remembered he’d asked a question. 

“The shower,” Dick murmured. “You said you have good water pressure. I want to see the shower.”

Never one to deny Dick, Slade tucked Dick against himself and carried him into the master bath. Dick pushed away from Slade to look around, but he found the bathroom to be just as pale and empty as the rest of the house. There were showers set into a narrow side room, and there was a lone, raised bathtub tucked into a curved window nook at the far end of the room. 

Dick wiggled out of Slade’s grasp. The marble floor was cold when Dick stood on his toes to cup Slade’s face.

“This is upsetting,” Dick said. “You’re an upsetting man.”

Slade scowled. “You’re not a model of functionality either,” Slade retorted. Dick shushed him and kissed his nose, and then his jaw. 

“I know,” Dick murmured into Slade’s beard. “I know, but this is depressing. You bought a depressing house, and now you're living like a tragic maiden in a Grimm's Fairy Tale.”

“The entire bathroom isn’t this gray,” Slade offered. 

"Oh?" Dick asked.

Slade led him into the shower room, and Dick's mouth fell open. 

There, set into the wall of the shower, were two stained-glass panels arranged into sweeping, geometric florals. One panel swirled with blues and indigos, the other shades of oranges and yellows.

“Oh, Slade,” Dick said. “These are too pretty for the rest of this godforsaken eyesore. Did you install them separately? There aren’t any like them in the rest of the house.” There were other stained-glass windows, but those were ugly and made of thick, primary-colored squares of glass. 

“I made them while recovering from a particularly nasty injury. Bill wouldn’t let me leave the house,” Slade said, opening the glass door and turning on both showerheads.

“You made them,” Dick repeated slowly. He stepped under the shower’s spray to lightly touch the solder between two pieces of glass.

“It was tedious,” Slade added. “I preferred the process of tearing up the wall to install the lighting behind them.”

“You… make stained-glass windows,” Dick said again, turning from Slade’s craftwork to smile at Slade himself. 

“I don’t,” Slade said. “I _made_ stained-glass windows, and I don’t have any interest in doing it again.”

“You shouldn't give up crafting like that," Dick said, shimmying out of his wet boxers and tossing them aside. "Crafting's actually very hot." 

“It’s not,” Slade insisted.

Dick smirked and pulled his shirt over his head. While Dick’s arms were still raised, Slade stepped forward pressed him against the tiled shower wall, right beside the blue stained-glass window. Dick looked up at Slade, naked but for the t-shirt tangled around his wrists.

"You don't act like this when I make things for _you_ ," Slade accused, water running rivulets down his face to drip from his sharp jaw and soak into his sweater. At that moment, Slade looked so damp, so disheveled, and so utterly pleased with himself that Dick felt dizzy with tenderness. 

"Because you don't make me stained-glass," Dick murmured. "You make me horrible things, like taxidermied animals." 

"It's the thought, kid," Slade said, so close that Dick could feel the heat emanating from his skin. 

It wouldn't be fair to Rose for Dick to involve himself too closely with Slade. That hadn’t changed, nor would it. But he kissed Slade anyway.

* * *

The next morning, Rose felt, rather heard, someone enter her room. She opened her eye and rolled over to see Dick hovering within a few inches of her face.

She screamed, and then she punched him in the throat.

“Wait! Fuck, wait, sorry!” Rose squealed, scrambling out of bed to hover over where he’d crumpled to the ground. “I didn’t register that it was you!”

"’S cool, ‘s cool,” Dick wheezed, as he crawled back to his feet. “Morning, Rose,” he gasped, dropping his hand. There was already a purpling bruise blossoming on the surface of his skin, and Rose hadn't ever felt as badly about punching a man as she did then. 

Rose cupped her mouth. “Dick, I am so sorry, your neck looks so fucked.”

Dick’s eyes widened, and he darted to the mirror built into her door. “Oh,” he rasped when he saw the bruise. “Oh, I’ve had worse.” He tucked his chin to his chest and then rolled his neck clockwise. “There’s no whiplash or swelling. I’ll be fine.”

She frowned at him through the mirror’s reflection. “I guess. What were you doing, hovering over me like a serial killer?”

He turned to her, beamed, and then pulled a small, plastic container of silver cosmetic glitter gel from his pocket. She raised her eyebrows.

“This doesn’t look like a precursor to Krav Maga,” Rose said drily.

“It’s _Saturday_. We’re in _New Orleans_ ,” Dick announced, waving the glitter about. “It’d be a waste if we didn’t take a day to enjoy the city. Have you ever had a monsoon? We’ll put on a little glitter, pick up a monsoon on Esplanade, and walk the Quarter until we’re either too tired or too drunk to keep going.”

Rose reared back and blinked at him. “What? It’s a bit early for that, don’t you think?”

“Not in this city,” Dick said. “There aren’t many last calls here. It’s also one of the few cities that I know of where you can drink in the street. I’d feel bad if we came all the way down here and I didn’t show you a good time at least once.” 

“Does Dad know?” Rose pushed, more shocked than anything. She’d never known Dick to drink; not while she’d been with the Titans. She thought back to when he last lived with Slade and Rose, when Rose was younger, and couldn’t remember him drinking back then either. 

Dick winked. “Don’t worry about Slade. I told him that you’re with me for the day.”

“But, did you tell him we’re not training?” Rose asked. “There’s no way he okayed this without you promising to put me through some sort of grueling exercise.”

“I mean, no, I didn’t. But day drinking can _become_ an endurance exercise if you’re really hungry for one,” Dick said. “I can pack some sort of lesson into this if you want. Otherwise, I was just going to spend the day fucking around in the city.”

“We’re really day drinking,” Rose repeated, trying to make sense of her morning. “We’re day drinking, and you want me to wear glitter for it.” She paused and cocked her head. “You’re really going to take me day drinking?”

Dick ran his hand through his hair, looking a bit embarrassed. “Unless you don’t want to drink, in which case we can tour the city sober. That’s also very much an option; I’ll make it worth your while either way.”

“No, no,” Rose said, holding out her hands. “No, I want to do it. I just didn’t expect it from you, is all. You and Roy hosted a team meeting on the dangers of recreational drug use when California legalized marijuana. Gar bought Conner a Smirnoff Ice once and you made him run laps.”

“Kon-El was, like, _three-years-old_ ,” Dick protested.

“Su _-_ ure,” Rose said. “Is everything okay? You haven’t been body swapped?”

Dick didn't look amused. “What can I say? I’m feeling spontaneous.” He placed the glitter on her dresser. “Get dressed. Pick out an outfit you’ve always wanted to wear but haven’t had the chance. Don’t worry about looking silly; people here will be into it. I’ll meet you outside.”

He left the room and Rose scoffed. She looked at the glitter, and then she scoffed again…

…and then she dug out an old, bedazzled costume prototype her dad rejected, slathered glitter on her cheeks, and caught up with Dick.

A monsoon, it turned out, was glorified jungle juice. Rose leaned against a crowded, sticky bar and watched the bartender dump two different types of rum into a 32 oz plastic to-go cup. She waited for him to stop pouring, but he didn’t. Beside her, Dick chatted with an extremely drunk maid of honor, his own face dotted with the same glitter as Rose’s.

After what must have been a minute, the bartender put aside the bottles of rum, poured juice from a carton labeled with masking tape, popped a lid on the cup, and balanced a straw on top.

“We’re taking this outside right?” Rose asked Dick. Her voice didn’t carry over the din, and so she tapped Dick and said, louder, “We’re not drinking it here, are we?”

Dick glanced over and furrowed his eyebrows. “What?” he shouted. Rose pointed at the drink and then at the expectant bartender. Dick waved at the bartender, shoved over some crumpled cash, and mouthed, ‘Thank you!’

He snagged the drink and gestured to Rose. She followed him and together they weaved between sweaty, packed bodies until the restaurant spat them outside, into the muggy heat. Once free from the throng, Rose stretched her arms above her head and groaned.

“I _hate_ crowds,” she muttered. “And there's no way this tastes good; there’s more rum in this drink than there is in a bottle. I might actually get drunk off this, even with the serum.”

“That’s the goal,” Dick chirped. He stuck a straw through the top and passed it to Rose. “Try it.”

She did. And it felt so good she groaned throatily. Although the drink was nauseatingly sweet and tasted very much of rum, the cold liquid was _incredible_ against her parched throat in the oppressive heat.

“Holy shit, that’s good,” she rasped past the alcohol’s burn. “I mean, it’s gross, but it’s _good_.”

Dick bumped her shoulder with his. “Drink it slow; even with your metabolism, it’s a lot.”

From there, they walked down Esplanade and threaded their way through the French Quarter, dodging tourists and ducking into side streets where there were any. Dick stole a few sips of the monsoon but largely left Rose to nurse the massive beverage on her own. He dragged Rose into a hot sauce store, where they placed bets as to who could eat the most of the sample sauces before tapping out.

He won, of course.

After an hour or two, he relinquished his control over the sightseeing and urged her to go where she wanted. By then, she was thoroughly drunk, although she wasn’t sure whether it was on the heat, the alcohol, or the general pulse of the city as they stumbled through its cobblestone streets.

She popped into a few tourist traps before finding a museum dedicated to Haitian _Vodou_ tucked between Bourbon and Royal Streets. The museum was small and cluttered, with only two rooms perfumed by incense and crammed from wall to ceiling with religious altars, cards of information, and charms for sale. There was a woman behind a counter and voices filtered from a third, curtained off room, but the museum was otherwise quiet.

Rose watched curiously as Dick perused a shelf packed with small, cloth bags tied off with string. Labels on each bag promised all manners of blessings, such as money, luck, peace, and love.

“Do you believe in any of this?” she whispered, not wanting to interrupt the space’s solemnity.

Dick shrugged. “I’ve learned to suspend my disbelief,” he said. “I know a woman who can bend reality by speaking backward. I’ve grown to accept too much to discount the validity of well-intentioned good luck charms.”

He bought four of the bags (called _gris-gris_ , according to the woman at the counter), and Rose sipped at the dredges of her drink. The alcohol softened her thoughts, tangling them together like raw wool. She said as much to Dick, and he barked out a laugh before guiding her from the museum.

She leaned against him as they ambled past wrought iron gates, clustered bars, and fellow revelers. Sweat gathered uncomfortably around the edges of her eyepatch and so she pulled it away and pocketed it, losing any self-consciousness over her disability at Dick’s encouragement. She couldn’t remember when drinking with Dick transitioned from novel to _fun_ , but it had, and she and Dick smeared sweat and glitter on each other as they tugged one another from one block to the next. 

Eventually, she finished the monsoon and tossed her trash while Dick disappeared into a brightly lit, obnoxiously neon daiquiri bar. When he returned, he had two tall Styrofoam cups in hand, one of which he handed to Rose and the other which he kept. Rose couldn’t even _taste_ the alcohol this time.

They debated the use of garotte wire in costumed villainy outside of St. Louis Cathedral (“It’s too slow,” Rose argued, but Dick insisted, “It’s not about efficiency, it’s about aesthetic,”), and Dick did a few backflips for a cluster of children waiting in line at Café Du Monde. They wandered down a cross street in time to watch a second line brass band sashay past, trailed by several dancing passersby who’d gotten caught in the French horns.

By the time Rose’s feet began to drag, they were overdue for lunch. They collapsed at a table in the first air-conditioned restaurant that promised them bottomless mimosas and Dick scrubbed his face before blinking at Rose blearily.

“I think I’m trashed,” he confessed.

Rose erupted into giggles. “Me too,” she snickered. “God, I’m drunk. God, _how_ am _I_ drunk?”

“I’ve been fighting your dad for _years_ ,” Dick slurred as he folded his napkin into a crane. “And I haven’t fought him for as long as I have without knowing how to overwhelm serum enhancements.” 

“Uh-huh,” Rose hummed, putting her elbow on the table and propping her head on her hand. “You surprised me. This was fun.”

Dick pursed his lips and squinted his face and Rose laughed at that too.

“I can be fun!” Dick protested.

A waitress appeared to fill their water glasses and drop off menus. They ordered cocktails and, when she left, Rose cooed, “Sure, you can. I just think I have a more elevated taste in fun, and I’m surprised you could accommodate.”

“What does _that_ mean,” Dick snorted, reaching for Rose’s napkin next. She swiped it from him.

“It means that on my second date with Jason, you made us play Settlers of Catan,” she smirked. But then he looked so _hurt_ that she relinquished her napkin and swore to give board games another shot.

The food settled their stomachs and made them lethargic enough to call a rideshare. In the back of their driver’s Toyota Camry, Rose leaned her head on Dick’s shoulder and closed her eye.

“How’re you feeling?” Dick asked, as the bumpy ride from Downtown to Uptown lulled her into dozing.

“Good,” she mumbled. “’m feeling pretty good. Better ‘n I’ve been.”

They arrived home, collapsed on the Victorian sofa in the living room, and fell asleep.


End file.
